Nénuphar
by Nahaliel
Summary: Neal's price to pay for freedom was Peter and, blindly, he undertook the tremendous effort that was moving on and starting a new life. But no amount of freedom could truly fill the void left by abandoning the life he'd built since stepping over the threshold of that prison gate. What Neal was met with upon his return, however, was something he never could have prepared for.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello all! It has been a very, very long time since I have posted anything or been active here. I've actually been toying with this story idea for almost all of that absence. It's still in the experimental stages, so I am thinking of posting it to see how people respond to it and adjusting accordingly or nixing the idea completely. This is very AU, which is a big part of my reservations about posting it. A couple warnings: there is a little implied violence, no sexual content and lots of weirdness. It takes place after the end of the season 6 finale and I tried my best to stay true to the show following that timeline. If there are any imperfections as far as that goes, please feel free to let me know. Anyway, feel free to give this a chance if you're feeling open minded and a little adventurous. Again, this is an experiment I'm not too sure about so be gentle if possible. Happy reading. :)_

* * *

For a short second, that small, top floor apartment, unobstructed view of the Eiffel tower, picturesque café four steps to the right of the building's front door had satisfied Neal. But progressively, his nights grew shorter, that apartment grew smaller until panic yanked him out of sleep after barely two hours and all the way to the open window, sucking in gulps of the frigid Paris air. Loneliness was crushing him and the city of love apparently had shut her heart to him by the time he got there. Tough it out, was his plan. Tough it out and move on. And though anxiety and loss curled their icy fingers around him every night, he was sticking to that plan.

And yet, here he was. Sticky sweat made his shirt cling to his back. His short breathing was loud in his ears as it teetered on the edge of hyperventilation and threatened a problematically public meltdown.

A lady in a business suit bashed into his right shoulder as she barreled past without so much as a second glance and all the cacophony of Terminal 2E in Charles De Gaulle came roaring back full force. Children screaming, French and English announcements over the sound system blurred together. Beeps. Suitcase wheels scratching the tiled floors.

Neal loosened his tie with a shaking hand, his passport and ticket dampening in the tight, clammy grip of his other. His boarding pass read JFK International Airport and the warning sirens in Neal's brain were so loud he was sure the people passing him could hear them. New York City was exactly where he should not be. That chapter was sealed, off limits, banished to the archives in his mind. This was stupidity, there was no other way to put it; his gut never failed and yet, his feet were firmly planted on the cold, gray floor of Charles de Gaulle Paris Airport and his flight took off in forty minutes.

The shaking in Neal's hands doubled and he stuffed them into pockets, passport, boarding pass and all. His empty hand closed around something thin and glossy. He pulled it out and rubbed his thumb over the tiny, cherub face of Peter's sleeping baby boy. The day just a few weeks ago when Neal had pulled the letter out of his PO box and found the wallet sized snapshot in the envelope had decided where he stood today.

"Dammit, Peter," he breathed and headed to security check.

* * *

An elderly man gingerly lowered himself into the seat next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, Neal felt the man gazing at the picture in his hands.

"Beautiful little boy," he smiled knowingly. "That time is precious. And it's gone in the blink of an eye." Neal looked up finally and his eyes met a pair of soft, brown ones, so reminiscent of Peter's his heart ached. "You never know how long you've got."

The plane's engines roared into action, signaling their imminent takeoff. Neal could wait twelve hours. He closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, his nose filling with the familiar mix of Boeing recycled air, peanuts and stale coffee. Twelve hours and he would be meeting the tiny child who bore his name and seeing Peter and El, alive, well and tangible. Twelve hours.

* * *

Tiny could not even have begun to qualify the size of the apartment Neal had rented for his time back in the city. One of the two windows faced the brick wall of the adjacent building, a sparsely made up twin bed was pushed against the wall across from the front door opposite an ancient kitchenette and bathroom. Neal dropped his suitcase onto the floor and sank down onto the bed. The prepaid, disposable phone felt heavy in his hand and he lost track of time as he stared at it, unable to quell the need to call Peter. What could have been an hour, or three hours later, the apartment darkened with nightfall, he found himself dialing Peter's number.

"Burke." The familiar, gruff voice made his eyes sting. "…Hello?"

"Peter… It's Neal."

There was a muffled noise on the other end of the line, then a poorly masked smile in the deep voice. "Where are you?"

The conversation ended with Neal absently relaying the address of his makeshift home and a promise to see the Burkes first thing tomorrow morning. Peter's confidence and calm and blatant disregard of how much trouble this meeting could get the two of them into pulled Neal's anxiety down a few notches. The idea of Peter as a father was something he just couldn't quite picture.

A loud knock on the door jolted him out of his pleasant reverie. He went to it instinctively and shot a glance through the peephole.

"I know you're in there, Neal." Matthew Keller's unmistakable voice came through the door. "Don't be shy, let's have a chat."

Before he could stop himself, Neal had opened the door and let the man in. Keller took in the place then zeroed in on Neal, cocking one eyebrow.

"You could do better, friend."

"And what, may I ask, brings you here?" Neal stood his ground, hands in his pockets. Nonchalance was his best bet as his heart banged violently in his chest, wiping every thought from his brain but _run_. He was still floored by his complete disregard for his own safety by letting Keller in.

"Don't look so surprised, kid."

"I'm impressed," Neal spoke levelly, to his own astonishment. "This "faking your own death" scheme is pretty far above your skill set."

Keller chuckled and Neal's gut twisted with that uneasy feeling he used to get when he knew luck wasn't on his side anymore. That it was time to get out. "You would know. We aren't that different after all. Do you know why you're still alive right now?"

"You missed."

Keller made a clicking noise with his tongue. "You think so?" Something was off. The pallor in his face, the drawn smile.

"Why are you here, Matthew?" Neal deflected. His calm façade was crumbling.

Keller just shook his head and grinned, the smile garish and shadowed in the dim sliver of moonlight seeping in from the window. "You have something I want, Neal. This isn't a fair fight anymore. We wouldn't want that, would we?"

Neal's mind reeled. Fair fight… He hadn't heard so much as a peep from Keller in a year, fully convinced, with no room for doubt, the man was finally dead and gone. Neal went suddenly very cold inside. In his pocket, his fingers closed around his cellphone.

"Ah ah… What are you doing, Neal?" Suddenly inches away from his face, Keller's hand wrapped around his wrist with a force that could crush it. Last time Neal had checked, the guy had been a good three feet away from him.

"You're not going to make this easy, are you?" Keller tightened his grip on Neal's wrist.

"I suppose I'll ask you again," Neal tried, "Are you going to tell me what it is you want, or not?"

Keller dropped Neal's wrist. "You just wouldn't understand." He flashed Neal a wicked grin – something in his mouth glinted in the light.

Neal backed up just a few inches before his back brushed against the apartment door, trapping him. Keller cocked his head to one side disapprovingly, the movement inhuman. Neal forgot how to breathe. Keller's free hand whipped up out of nowhere, palm smashing into Neal's forehead and snapping his head back against the door behind him with a crack, immobilizing him.

"Matthew?!"

Keller ignored him, eyes wide, filled with a hunger Neal had never seen before.

"Matthew! What the hell is wrong with you?!" Neal tried to struggle out from under his grip but the hand wouldn't budge. Keller trailed his long fingers along Neal's carotid. Then grabbing his chin, he forced Neal's head all the way back. The muscles in his neck burned at the unnatural stretch. He choked.

"Relax, Neal," Keller hissed, leaning in and pressing his face into Neal's neck. "You might even enjoy the ride."

Pain screamed through Neal's throat, all the way up to his jaw and right through his skull. His mouth opened in a cry, but no sound came. He tried kicking out with his legs, but lethargy set into his limbs within the space of seconds, the pain in his neck fire growing, pounding, descending to his lungs, his arms, all the way to his fingertips. His vision whited out, everything tilted and he slid down to the floor.

* * *

 _"Nénuphar" means waterlily in French._


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hello! It has been far too long. Thank you to everyone who read the first chapter, and to those who shared their feedback! I hope you enjoy chapter 2. Happy reading!**_

* * *

Peter took the stairs to Neal's apartment three at a time, tripping over his own feet in the semi-complete darkness. The white lie that he would tell El when his tiptoeing back to bed at three A.M. would most likely be thwarted by stepping on their son's loudest toy? He couldn't wait until tomorrow. The truth? It was the twinge again. That goddamn, irrational twinge in his gut that invariably led to trouble, had pushed him out his front door that night to see Neal early. He wouldn't have slept anyway had he waited until morning. He would have kept El up tossing and turning. Whatever excuses he fed himself all the way to the top floor landing of Neal's apartment building, could not hide the fact that that twinge, even years later, was still his need to make sure Neal was okay. He paused at the elegant, white door for a second, pressing his ear to the wood. No sound from the other side.

"Neal?"

No reply. Peter jiggled the knob, and found the door unlocked. Skin prickling, he cautiously eased the door open a ways, then found it blocked by something heavy. He peered through the crack, squinting into the darkness on the other side.

"Damnit… Neal!"

It was a body blocking the door. Neal's body. Peter pushed the door open just further enough for him to slip through the crack and step over Neal without causing any damage, then dropped to his knees by him. He fumbled along the wall with a hand, then found the light switch.

He flipped it on. Neal was face down on the floorboards, showing no signs of consciousness. But what frightened Peter the most, was Neal's pallor. White. His hands and what Peter could see of his neck under the thick brown locks were void of any color, almost translucent. Neal looked… dead. Peter swallowed hard, pressing shaking fingers to the side of Neal's neck.

"Please, no." He waited, praying the only reason he hadn't felt anything yet was for his own pulse smacking inside his fingertips. Neal's skin was freezing to the touch.

Then he felt it. The nearly non-existent, thready pulse, pumping feebly against his fingertips. But there. _There_ , goddammit.

Neal was still alive.

Carefully, Peter slid an arm under Neal, and rolled him onto his back and into his own lap, cradling his head in the crook of his forearm. Neal's face was as colorless as the rest of him, lips white and tinged with blue.

It dawned on Peter that the fingers he'd pressed to Neal's neck felt sticky. He lifted them up to the light, and saw with horror they were stained red with blood. Frantically, he searched Neal for injury, as gently as possible, and his fingers came to rest at a spot on his neck. Head pounding, Peter studied the injury, mind reeling. There was something here beyond his realm of comprehension, too many pieces missing for his brain to wrap around the puzzle's full picture.

There were two, tiny puncture wounds in the side of Neal's neck, aligned, distanced an inch and a half from each other, still leaking little droplets of blood. Something finally clicked in Peter's head. Blood loss. Ok. Neal was suffering from severe blood loss. But from such a tiny wound? Help now, musings later.

Peter dialed 911 and jammed his phone between his shoulder and ear as he ran both hands down Neal's chest, arms and legs one more time, in case he'd missed something. Nothing. No blood anywhere else, save for the smallest smudge between Neal's lips. There were barely three droplets of blood on the floor. A wound that small could never have left him so critical.

Peter laid an ear against Neal's chest, trying to hear past the blood rushing in his ears. The faintest sound of breathing reached his hearing, and he wilted against his partner, holding him close and just listening. To the tiniest woosh of air filtering in and out of his lungs. The tiniest breath of life. Irrationality of his so-called twinge be damned; Neal would not have survived the night without it.

* * *

Three days later, Neal's hand moved. The smallest twitch of his fingers. Peter straightened creakily in the hospital visitor's chair, holding Neal's hand flat in his palm. It moved again.

Peter's heart thumped against his ribcage as he leaned forward and stole a glance at Neal's face. The multiple blood transfusions had put the slightest bit of color back in his face, but not much still. Peter hated admitting this to even himself, but it was a miracle that Neal was even alive. His eyes were shadowed and his face still had that calm, far away expression it had for the past few days. But his hand had moved.

Then the pale face screwed up slightly, a line of pain etching into his brow.

"Neal?"

His dry lips parted slightly, and the whisper of air came out. Peter gripped Neal's hand in his, holding on tight. Tentatively, he tried again, "Neal."

Neal's eyes opened slowly, blinking against the harsh light. Peter had to swallow a couple of times. The relief of seeing that impossibly bright blue shade again caught in his throat. He let out a long breath. Then, he felt a slight tremor course through the hand he was holding, and tension ripple all the way through Neal, hand vibrating in Peter's

Neal bolted upright in the bed, one hand flying to his throat, clawing at the bandage there, chest heaving. Peter jumped up, startled, not knowing what to do. "Hey, take it easy, Neal. You're okay. You're safe…"

Neal's bloodshot eyes focused on him, wide and frightened. Then they squeezed shut in pain. "Peter?" Neal croaked, still holding a hand to his throat. "My… I… Peter, it hurts…" he gasped, inching toward the edge of the bed. Peter slammed the guard railing down so he could sit on the edge, gently grabbing Neal by the shoulders.

"Hey, hey, hey," Peter kept his voice even and low, feeling Neal trembling under his hands. The clock on the wall ticked loudly. "You're in the hospital. Do you need a doctor?"

Neal made a soft choking sound, and backed away, hands clumsily pushing at Peter's. "He… c-came back. He's worse, Peter. He's so much worse."

Peter inched a little closer. This sent Neal frantically scrabbling backwards, falling to knees that couldn't yet support his weight. The cold hand of helplessness curled around Peter's heart. He took a breath and tried again, approaching slowly, hands up, palms facing Neal. The room was silent save for Neal's hitching breaths and the clock, ticking loudly, aggressively. Peter got down on his knees in front of Neal, who shrunk further away.

"You're not going to believe me," he whispered brokenly. Peter had never seen Neal's eyes plead. "Please. You have to believe me."

He blinked heavily, dropping forward onto his forearms, shaking. Peter slid an arm under him before he hit the floor, pulling him into his arms, holding him upright. He let his chin rest on the top of Neal's head.

"I never stopped."

* * *

What woke Neal again was the pain. Rippling in waves from his collarbones, his throat, through his jaw and all the way up to his head, making him sick. Shakily, he climbed out of bed and staggered to the bathroom, one hand clutching his throat. He left the door ajar behind him, and flipped on the light. The sudden brightness of it sent a bolt of pain through his skull, and he clutched his head, groping blindly for the sink to hang on to.

He straightened when the dizziness passed, and caught his reflection in the mirror. Or what he thought was his reflection. It looked more like the hollow shell of his usual self staring back at him. Almost like in the space of three days, the life had been sucked out of him. Bloody teeth and Keller's hollow eyes flashed through his brain, making him gasp unexpectedly. Keller had done something to him. That pain, he remembered so vividly. Keller had…bit him. Frantically, Neal peeled the bandage off his neck. It fell from his hands and into the sink. Clean and white. He leaned closer to the mirror, probing the spot on his throat with shaking fingers. There was nothing there. No scar, no bruise. Nothing.

A strained laugh escaped his lips, the sound maniacal and foreign in the silence. None of this could possibly have been real anyway.

Another wave of nausea crashed over him and Neal bit his bottom lip hard, then cried out. He'd bitten clean through it, little droplets of blood blossoming at the pin prick size cuts. With his finger, he lifted his upper lip. His gums hurt too.

Something moved in his gum. Just above his canines. Neal shrunk back from the mirror. No, no, no, no. He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them. The same, deathly pale face stared back at him. He pressed a hand to his mouth, trembling, legs like rubber—

"Neal?"

The shock of Peter's intrusion knocked him to the floor with a gasp. Something pierced his upper gum, above the teeth and stabbed the inside of his mouth. Blood trickled down his chin and seeped into the collar of his white t-shirt.

"Jesus Christ, you okay, buddy?" Peter knelt down in front of Neal, gently taking his head between his hands. "You're bleeding… How'd you bite your lip like that—Fuck!"

Peter sprang back, sliding away and towards the door. His fingers, wet with blood from Neal's lip, left smudges on the gray tiles of the floor. "Neal?"

Neal brought a hand to his mouth, and felt two razor sharp teeth poking out where his banal, filed canines had been seconds ago. He couldn't move, the only sound between them his frantic heartbeat. His entire body pulsed with it. But it was an empty pulsing, like that familiar hunger created void in his stomach but now throughout his entire body. Something very, very dark inside of him uncoiled. He was ravenous, he realized. Red seeped into his vision as his insideds seemed to tear and twist. Peter still sat in his line of vision, unmoving, face frozen in an emotion he'd never seen directed toward him. Then, Neal heard it. A second frantic heartbeat, that wasn't his own. His eyes snapped to the veins in Peter's neck. He could see the life pulsing through them.

Peter had always been stronger than him. The time he'd kept him from running into the plane in flames that held Kate. There had been no breaking free from that iron grip and that hadn't been the only time Peter had showed far superior physical strength to hold him down. But the ease with which Neal swiftly grabbed Peter around the neck and pinned him to the floor shattered all of that. Like he weighed nothing. Peter grabbed Neal's wrist. "What the hell?!"

Neal barely heard him through the rush of blood in his ears. He'd zeroed in on Peter's carotid, drowning out everything else. He lowered his face close to Peter's neck, oblivious to the man's struggle to get away from him.

"Neal!" Peter's desperate voice pierced the red fog. Neal snapped his gaze to Peter's eyes. The wide, deep chocolate brown peered right through him. "This isn't you." This sent ice to Neal's very core. "This… is not you."

Neal's surroundings seeped back into his awareness and he found that he was gripping onto Peter's wrists so hard he'd drawn blood. He dropped them in disgust, and they fell to heavily to Peter's sides. He pulled himself off and dragged himself away, trembling.

"Peter," he gasped, "I'm a monster."

* * *

To be continued.


End file.
